


rise again like the dawn

by crownkeeper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Sasha James, Canon-Typical Leitner Shenanigans, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and now he can see ghosts !, basically jon got marked by the End instead of the Web as a kid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownkeeper/pseuds/crownkeeper
Summary: When Jon is eight years old, his grandmother brings home a book.Some three hours later, Jon can see ghosts.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 96
Kudos: 568





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annabelle and Oliver definitely do _not_ fit in the time frame of this fic, but we're just going to pretend they do because I love them. Also because I don't want to create OCs for one (1) chapter.

When Jon is eight years old, his grandmother brings home a pile of books.

Most of them are innocuous. One of them isn’t. Jon finds that one first. 

It’s on the top of the pile—a small, worn paperback. The cover is entirely black, save for a white, monospaced title: _Last Rites_

Something about it draws Jon’s attention. The back, too, is unassumingly blank and a nagging curiosity compels him to take a look inside. He pulls his arm from the paper box with all the other books, and flips it open. 

There’s no author, but the shiny golden nameplate declares it to be _From the Library of Jurgen Leitner_. Jon flips to the first page, and begins reading. 

It’s a guide for gravekeeping and funeral-directing, and all kinds of morbid things that an eight-year old shouldn’t read. Jon keeps reading, and if he stands up and slips out the door—well. He doesn’t notice. 

&

The next time Jon looks up, the sky has darkened significantly, and he’s standing at the gates of the local cemetery. His hands are empty. The book is gone. 

There’s a teenager, in front of him, and _he’s_ holding the book, dangling it tauntingly by the spine. 

“Last rites, _really_ , Jon?” He says, and sneers. “Getting a bit morbid for an eight year old, aren’t you?” 

“Give it back,” Jon says desperately, and starts grabbing at it. There’s something he needs to do, he _knows_ he has to do it—something about performing funeral rites. Something about moving on. 

The teenager rolls his eyes, and lifts the book higher, grabbing it with both hands just to take a peek. “I’m sure your grandmother will be _very_ pleased to know you’re already planning her funer—” 

He stops abruptly. Jon cranes his neck up at the teenager, watching his face desperately. His eyes have glazed over, and dart between the pages, as if reading in a trance. 

Jon still can’t reach the book. And something tells him not to try. 

The book is thin, and the teenager makes his way through it quickly, fingers flicking pages aside. He stays rooted to the spot for a few minutes, reading, and Jon just watches. Waits, desperately, because something tells him to _stay here_. 

About three-quarters of the way in, the teenager begins moving. He strides forward, through the cemetery gates, still reading, with a determined purpose in his stride. Jon follows, stumbling over himself to keep up. 

It’s empty, in the cemetery. The wind doesn’t blow, and their footsteps don’t make any noise. 

The teenager stops just before a blank headstone. In front of him, a casket, already lowered into the open grave, lies open and waiting. 

He shuts the book, and the pages slam together loudly, echo bouncing back and forth between the stone memorials and chipped headstones. The teenager clasps it to his chest, steps into the casket, and lies down. 

The lid swings closed over him. Inside, the teen begins reciting last rites prayers. 

Jon watches that casket, cold fear shuddering through his veins. 

“He won’t be coming back out,” a man says pleasantly from directly behind him. Jon startles so hard he nearly stumbles into the grave. The man reaches a hand to his shoulder and steadies him, pulling him back from the pit. 

The teenager is quiet, now. The man runs an eye over Jon, and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. He’s smiling, fond and exasperated.

“It’s good to see Annabelle still has a soft spot for children,” he says, and pats Jon’s head. “Still, that was a bit irresponsible of her. Could have marked you twice in one day.” 

Jon says, “What?” Because this situation has rapidly become far too much for his eight year old brain to process. 

“I’m sure she’s very sorry for the trauma,” the man says. “And any side effects. You should go, now. This isn’t really a place for children.” 

“Just teenagers?” Jon immediately regrets saying it. 

The man huffs a laugh. “Just teenagers,” he agrees. “Go on, now.” 

Jon does. 

&

On his way home, he sees an old woman, tottering cheerfully across the park. She gives him a bright, gummy smile as he passes, and waves at him. 

Jon lifts his hand to wave back when he realizes he can see the streetlight through her palm. He screws his eyes shut and when he opens them, she’s gone. 

She’s the first ghost he’ll ever see. He runs all the way home. 

His grandmother doesn’t offer much in comfort. 

“Ghosts aren’t real,” she tells him stoutly, and then chides him for being out so late. After some incessant begging on Jon’s part, she leaves the hallway light on after he goes to bed.

He still doesn’t sleep well, that night. 

(Oliver meets Annabelle at Mr. Spider’s house, after he’s shoveled enough dirt to make his puny arms cry. His black trenchcoat only stays just manages to stay clean through the magic power of fear gods.

“That poor boy,” he says sympathetically, and knocks one of her pawns down. “He’ll probably be traumatized for life.” 

“He’ll get over it,” Annabelle says dispassionately. She slides her queen across the board. “Humans usually do. Checkmate.”)

&

Jon most certainly does _not_ get over it, which is probably how he ends up as _Jonathan Sims, Archival Assistant_ at the Magnus Institute. 

“It’ll be _fine_ ,” Tim tells him on their first day, slapping his back as they tread down the stairs. “ _Sasha’s_ Head Archivist. She wouldn’t overwork us, even if she could! The HR department isn’t just for show, you know.” 

“I’m not worried about _that_ ,” Jon mutters. 

“Oh, is Jonny boy afraid of the _rumors_?” Tim says, and seems to delight in that idea. “Jon, you know that gossip in Research is hardly ever right. I would know.” 

“There’s some merit to the _rumors_ ,” Jon says scathingly. “How high is the turnover rate for Archival Assistants? Why don’t we ever see them again?” 

“Probably because they’ve been fired,” Tim says languidly. They’ve reached the bottom of the staircase now, and he levels a disbelieving gaze at Jon. “I think it would at _least_ make local news if the Archives killed everyone who ever stepped foot in it.” 

“The Archives killed _Gertrude_ ,” Jon argues. 

“Just because Gertrude worked in the Archives doesn’t mean they _killed_ her,” Tim says. “Relax, Jon. We’ll be perfectly dandy. If anything, you’ll probably overwork yourself and die of heart disease. I’ll be sure to mention that the Archives killed you at your funeral.” 

If Jon stiffens a bit, Tim doesn’t notice. 

&

The thing about the Institute is, that there are no ghosts. There _should_ be, because there are ghosts everywhere but there just—aren’t. 

Jon doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know why. Because there are ghosts everywhere, but there aren’t any _here_ , and he needs this respite—has _needed_ a sanctuary like this for a very long time. 

So he finds excuses to work longer nights, come in earlier. It helps that he wants—maybe _needs_ —to get absurd amounts of work done. And it also helps that barely anyone really _likes_ him. It’s easy to reject a night out if no one invites you to one. 

Tim is…a charity worker, probably. He’s always been kind, behind that boisterous laughter. This makes it both easier and harder to turn him down when necessary. 

It’s okay, though. Jon has gotten used to saying no to ghosts. People aren’t that different, when it comes down to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry because this chapter _basically_ catfished you. There is not very much ghost-y conflict. But hey, that's exposition, right?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More exposition happens, and friends are made: Sasha is suspicious. Jon hates talking to people. Tim is a growing boy. Martin steals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, tearing up: people.......enjoy.........my writing?
> 
> Thank you for your support! This chapter is much more lighthearted than the last and still a bit catfish-y since ghosts _still_ don't make a major appearance but I couldn't resist some good old Archival bonding.

_"Christ_ , what a mess,” Sasha says, purveying the Archives. It really is; the aisles between the rows of bookshelves and filing cabinets are swamped in vanilla file folders and paper. Statements and follow-up research are crumpled in balls and discarded on the floor. Five lightbulbs need to be changed. 

She starts to feel a headache come on. _Gertrude, what were you_ doing? 

There has to be something to it, Sasha thinks. She’d met Gertrude—the old lady was _sharp._ She didn’t do _anything_ on accident. 

So why did she leave the Archives like this?

&

“Hi,” Martin says nervously, fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweater. “I’m Martin. I’m an—archival assistant?” 

He shuts his mouth before he can say something stupid like _your facial structure is very pretty_ which is objectively not a normal person thing to say. 

“Oh,” the other man says absently, and then suddenly seems to register Martin’s words— ”Oh! Yes, me too. Jonathan Sims.” 

“Okay,” Martin says, and immediately feels stupid. “Okay, uh, cool. Nice to meet you….Jonathan.” 

“Jon is fine,” he says. He looks visibly uncomfortable. This doesn’t really help Martin’s whole _wow I think I could have a crush on you_ status. “It’s nice to meet you too, uh—Martin.” 

_I am so fucked_ , Martin thinks.

&

Sasha finds out very quickly that some statements won’t record. 

“Oh,” Elias says when asked, “have you tried a tape recorder? I’ve always found that analogue is more…. _reliable_ than digital.” 

“Boomer,” Sasha mutters after leaving his office, and goes to hunt down a tape recorder.

&

“Sorry,” Jon says, next time he bumps into Martin, “have we met before? I feel like I’ve seen you around.” 

“I uh—probably,” Martin says. “Research isn’t really a large department and all.” 

He pauses. “You did work in Research, right?” 

Jon nods fervently. He regrets starting a conversation already. “Wow. Uh, small world. I suppose.” 

“Yeah,” Martin says. “Yeah, I uh—I suppose it is.” 

&

Sasha can’t shake the feeling that something is empirically wrong with the Archives. She’s always been logical, but the _emotion_ that had bubbled up in her while she was reading that statement—and the feeling of being _watched_ —

Gertrude didn’t do anything on accident. And Elias had seemed so _keen_ to organize the Archives.

Sasha sets down the statement. There’s work to be done. 

&

“An Archival….bonding dinner?”

“Yes, Jon,” Tim says patiently. “Do keep up.”

“Isn’t that against an employee code or something?” 

“ _Well_ ,” Tim says, and smiles sweetly. “I’m friends with everyone outside of work. Really, its just a couple of pals having drinks.”

“A couple of pals who just so happen to be working together,” Jon says flatly. 

“Yes,” Tim says. “But that’s coincidences for you. Elias can’t prove anything.” 

“I think he can,” Jon says. “You just introduced it to me as the _Archival bonding dinner_.” 

“Well _he_ wasn’t around for that, was he?” Tim lifts a smug eyebrow, and crosses his arms. “Are you coming or not?” 

“I’m going to be doing actual _work_ , thank you,” Jon says acerbically. “These Archives aren’t going to organize themselves. If they could, I rather imagine they would have already.” 

“You workaholic,” Tim mutters under his breath, and then: “Please?” 

“No.” 

_"_ _Pleeease?"_

Jon scowls. “No.” 

Tim catches a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. “Oi! Martin! Come here! Come help me manhandle Jon into my car!” 

“ _No_ ,” Jon groans. “No, I’m _not_ going, and that’s final!” 

&

“So glad you could make it, Jon,” Sasha says sweetly. “Another round of peanuts?” 

“I preferred the bread rolls,” Jon grouches, and takes a sip of black coffee. Behind Sasha, a young woman drifts through a waiter. She’s wearing a long nightgown, and half her skull is crushed and shattered. 

She’s wailing, probably. Her mouth is open and her expression is distressed. Jon looks away before she can turn around and catch him staring. 

“Um,” Martin says, “are we actually going to order anything or are we going to live off appetizers forever?” 

Whatever Tim says is lost in the restaurant's cacophony. From the shape of his mouth, Jon thinks he called Martin weak. 

“ _Waiter,_ ” Tim shouts, and his voice naturally rises above the noise. Two waiters startle and start heading in their direction. A third ghost, still garbed in their apron and uniform comes too. Their face is melted and still dripping with red-hot oil. 

Jon’s appetite is thoroughly ruined at this point. He still makes a point not to look at any of the spectres. It’s worse when they know he can see them. 

“Jon?” Tim looks at him. “What are you ordering?” 

“Er,” Jon says. “Pass. I’m not hungry.” 

Tim gives him a suspicious once-over. “You had half a sandwich for lunch.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Jon repeats stubbornly. 

“Yes, yes,” Tim waves his hand dismissively, and looks at Martin. “All Jon does is _work, work, work_. I wouldn’t be surprised if all he eats is statements.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Sasha stage-whispers. It’s honestly a feat how she manages to say it so loudly the whole table can hear it, given the noise of the restaurant. “That’s how Tim shows his concern.”

“I ate a lot of bread rolls,” Jon sniffs. “It was very filling.” 

“You ate one,” Tim says. 

“ _Very_ filling.” 

Tim sighs and turns back to the waiter. “Two lobster rolls, please. And some chips. And fish. Chips and fish.”

The waiter says, "Fish and chips?" He looks genuinely confused.

"Yeah," Tim says. "That one." 

“Smooth,” Sasha says dryly. “You’re planning to eat all of that?”

“Well,” Tim says, and looks deviously at Jon, “I’m a growing boy.” 

&

Going home is the worst part. So Jon doesn’t. 

The restaurant isn’t far from the Institute, and he has some work to do anyway. Sasha’d assigned some followup for the Anglerfish case and by god was Jon going to follow up. 

He is, though, surprised to see _Martin_ at the Archive doors.

“Oh!” Martin says, clearly also surprised to see him. “Jon! Nice to see you….again.” 

“Yes,” Jon says awkwardly. “Um. Are the Archives locked?” 

“I haven’t tried,” Martin says, and steps aside so Jon can rattle the handle. 

“Locked,” Jon says. “Uh. Not to worry. I have the key.” He slips it out of his pocket and flashes it demonstratively at Martin before sticking it into the key hole.

“I thought only Sasha has the key,” Martin says. 

Jon grimaces sheepishly. “I may have nicked it off her? While she was going to the bathroom?” 

He frowns, and rattles the door. “It won’t go in.” 

_“Jesus,”_ Martin says. “Did you steal the wrong key from our boss?” 

“ _Well_ ,” Jon says nervously, “steal is an operative word—”

“I did think it was weird that she only had one key,” Martin says, and steps forward. _He’s_ holding a key. Jon steps aside to let him try that. It fits perfectly.

“Oh god,” Jon says, suddenly very afraid and very nauseated. “Did I—did I steal Sasha’s house key?” 

Martin pushes open the door and flicks on the Archive lights. He laughs quietly to himself, and looks back at Jon. 

“Steal,” he says, “is an operative word." And then, more concerned: "Hey, are you uh….okay?”

Jon thinks he might throw up. He _stole his boss’ house key._

“No,” he says. “I really don’t think I am. I could get _fired_ for this.”

“Just leave it in her office,” Martin suggests. “That way when she comes in the morning, she’ll just think she forgot it.” 

“I can’t believe myself,” Jon mutters, and sighs. “Good idea.”

“No problem,” Martin says, and smiles. His phone immediately begins ringing. He checks the caller ID, and then smiles apologetically at Jon. 

“You might want to go,” he says. “Sasha’s calling.” 

“Yes,” Jon says faintly, seeing his life flash before his eyes, “Yeah, I’m—I’m going. And uh—Martin?”

Martin looks up. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” 

Martin goes beet red. “You’re welcome! It’s my pleasure, really, it—oh. He’s gone.” 

&

Sasha’s office is fairly empty—just a mug and a small pile of statements. Jon leaves her key on her desk, and turns around to leave, when he catches sight of the tail end of a silver wisp. When he blinks, it’s gone. 

_Huh_ , he thinks, because it’s not a ghost—it can’t be a ghost. The Institute doesn’t _have_ ghosts. 

  
_Maybe Tim is right_ , he thinks blearily, and rubs his eyes. _I_ do _need more sleep_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sasha ardently and I miss her and Archivist Sasha is so powerful but I have no idea how to write her voice. Or like, anything, to be honest. 
> 
> Also I recently listened to Wooden Overcoats and my Jon voice keeps slipping into Rudyard Funn and that might be a major issue going forward but it is a future me problem.
> 
> Also also: not to sound like a broken record, but really, thank you for all your support and interaction in the previous chapter. I love all of you very much. As evidenced by the fact that I actually sat down and wrote another chapter. But yeah. Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is rude, avoids several ghosts, and regrets his life decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i know how to write? absolutely not. 
> 
> is it working anyway? apparently??????????
> 
> i love archivist!sasha with all my poor lesbian heart. powerful lady please step on me.

The Archives are important, and Sasha doesn’t know why. 

She sorts through statements carefully; those that record fine, and those that take weeks and a tape recorder. The anomalies are important. The anomalies _have_ to be important because they’re the only lead she has. 

Everything important leads to an answer at some point. Sasha will follow this thread until she gets one. 

&

Jon steps out of the coffee shop, and straight into a ghost. 

Contrary to popular belief, a ghost doesn’t _feel_ like anything, not really. Jon tastes a hint of bitter desperation and regret, but it’s not cold or otherwise unpleasant. Years of experience have trained him from reacting, but the ghost must see _something_ because it grabs uselessly at his sleeve, mouth opening and closing helplessly.

Back when he had been idyllic and young, Jon had learned a little lip-reading. He wishes he hadn’t. 

_Please_ , the ghost is trying to say, trailing after him. _Please, please, please_ . Every time the ghost’s translucent fingers passes through his arm intensifies that bitter-ashen taste of _desperatehopelongingregretpleasepleaseanotherchance_. 

Jon readjusts his grip on his coffee cup, and walks faster. The Institute is just around the corner. The Institute is just around the corner. The Institute is _just around the corner_. 

He weaves around a car crash victim, silvery blood still pouring from their cracked skull, and ducks his head to avoid looking at a young teenage boy with a slit throat. Step by step, inching closer to safety. 

“Jon!” 

Oh. Oh _no_. 

Martin sprints up to him. He beams, and it’s like the sun has unfurled its petals, radiating joy in every direction. 

“Fancy catching you here,” he says, smiling. “How are you, Jon? You think Sasha’s figured out you took her keys yet?”

Jon shrugs. “I would hope not,” he says shortly, and decidedly does _not_ look behind him to check on his pursuer. 

Martin laughs awkwardly, and scratches at the nape of his neck. “Yeah. The uh—other scenario isn’t very good, is it?” 

Jon cracks a smile at that. He _shouldn’t_ , because jittery dread rattles in his chest like poorly timed maracas, but Martin’s happiness is….contagious. “She hasn’t figured out you’ve taken the Archive key either?” 

“Nah,” Martin says. “I think if she hasn’t figured it out at this point, she’s never going to.” 

“That’s true,” Jon says, and then he can taste it again—bitterness. Regret. Fear. 

A wisp of silver-blue flickers in the corners of his vision, and then begins edging forward. 

Jon keeps his gaze blankly ahead. The Institute is in sight now.

“Erm,” he says. “Martin, do you mind if we pick up the pace? I _do_ want to get to work on time.”

“Oh!” Martin looks surprised, and then apologetic. “Of course, Jon. I didn’t mean to slow you down.” 

“No, no,” Jon says, “no, you didn’t—it’s not your fault, really.”

They walk the rest of the way to the Institute in silence. The ghost disappears when Jon crosses the threshold. 

&

Weeks pass. Sasha records statements, and the assistants research them. Nothing happens. There are no answers, and there are no leads.

And then: 

“Hey,” Sasha says. She’s standing by Jon’s desk; it’s a mess of paperwork and recordable statements and case files and so on and so forth. 

“Good morning,” Jon says, prim and proper as ever. 

“I’ve got a statement for you,” she says. “One of the tape recorder ones. I don’t really see much follow-up that can be done, but do what you can.” 

“That _is_ my job,” Jon says dryly. He takes the statement, still sheathed in it’s vanilla file folder. “Thanks. I’ll get it done in a week.” 

“Make it two,” Sasha says, and massages her temple tiredly. “I’ve got a statement to record today. God help me.” 

“Good luck,” Jon says. 

“Yeah,” Sasha says. “Yeah, I’m going to need that. Tell Tim to restock the Archival aspirin by this afternoon.” 

“I will,” Jon promises. Sasha leaves. He pushes some loose research to the side, and flips open the folder. 

_Statement of Antonio Blake_ , it reads, _regarding his recent dreams about Gertrude Robinson, previous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute._

&

A week and a half of fruitless research more or less confirms that Antonio Blake doesn’t exist. It’s a fake identity. He’s a ghost, in his own sense.

It’s almost ironic. Jon puts his tidy little research notes into the folder and hands it off to Sasha, who groans as soon as she sees it. 

“Just once,” she says, “ _please_ pretend that you need extra time for research, if only for the sake of my poor head.” 

“You might,” Jon says, ignoring her completely. He pauses, searching for the right words. “You might want to have Rosie pass along new statements as soon as they’re made. Even if the researchers aren’t done with them yet.”

Sasha looks surprised. “Is there something…. _real_ in the statement?” 

“Just a precaution,” Jon says, and purposefully fails to mention how deeply he was unsettled by the whole affair. “Did Elias ever tell you how Gertrude died?” 

“Apparently ‘in the line of duty,’” Sasha says with her best Elias impression. “Because that makes so much sense for an _archivist_.” 

“Hm,” Jon says, and then wonders if he’s going to sleep tonight. 

&

When Jon leaves for the night, there’s a man waiting outside the Institute, leaning against the wall. 

He looks up as Jon comes out, and smiles, easy-going and content, and takes one hand out of his pocket to wave.

“Hello,” the man says. “You’re Jon, right?” 

Jon immediately scraps his fanatical daydream of actually sleeping. “No.” 

The man huffs a laugh at that, and pushes himself off the wall. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. You could say we’re….connected.” 

“What,” Jon says flatly. He doesn’t move, and he _certainly_ doesn’t stop being afraid.

“Hm,” the man says. He holds out a hand. “Oliver Banks. Can I talk you into some dinner? Annabelle tells me you haven’t eaten yet.” 

“I—” Jon says, and then shakes his head. “I’m not _stupid_.”

“We’ll stick to the main roads and populated restaurants,” Oliver promises. 

When Jon doesn’t speak again, he sighs, and tucks his hands back into the pockets of his long black trench coat. 

“You have my word that I won’t harm you in any way,” he says. “And—I’d like to talk to you about your ghosts.”

Jon considers this for a moment, and then sighs. “Alright. Lead the way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is surprisingly difficult to make jon Not Funny. alas, s1 jon has a stick so far up his ass that you could probably call him a tree.
> 
> also: jonny sims doesn't specify how oliver dresses but it is my personal headcanon that he wears a swishy long black coat because aesthetic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver talks about his benefits package as an avatar of the End.

Jon follows Oliver to a Chinese restaurant. It’s a Friday, around dinner time, and the place is jam-packed with people. Still, they’ve barely stepped foot into the restaurant when they’re ushered to their seats. 

“That’s convenient,” Jon says awkwardly, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say and he feels like he should say _something_.

Oliver half-smiles, like he knows something Jon doesn’t. “Isn’t it?” 

“Um,” Jon says. “Yes. Quite.” 

“Well,” Oliver says, and folds his menu neatly closed, setting it off to the side. “Working with the Mother _does_ have its benefits occasionally.” He huffs then, and clasps his hands together. “Not that you know what the Mother is." 

“No,” Jon agrees, feeling remarkably out of his depth. 

“I thought we should start with introductions first,” Oliver continues. “I’m Oliver Banks. And you?” 

“I thought you already knew,” Jon says. 

“I do,” Oliver says pleasantly, and lets the matter slide. “What do you do for a living, Jon?” 

He huffs at that. “What do you _think_ I do? You met me outside the Magnus Institute. You know my name. I doubt it’s difficult to discern.” 

“Humor me,” Oliver says. 

Jon presses his lips together into a thin, unamused line. “I’m an archival assistant at the Magnus Institute.”   
  


“Thank you,” Oliver says. He takes a sip of tea from the plastic tea cup. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me your job?” 

Oliver huffs again: a quiet, unassuming laugh. “It’s rather complicated at the moment.” And then, after a pause: “It’s got a very….interesting benefits package.” 

“Well, as long as you’re set for retirement,” Jon says sardonically. 

“Indeed,” Oliver agrees, “Although our definitions of retirement are probably very different now. Our definitions of work, too. I used to work at a magic shop, you know? Sold crystals and tarot and all sorts of fun witchery. Very Wiccan.” 

“That’s nice,” Jon says, mostly for lack of other things to say. 

“Terrible pay,” Oliver says, and sighs tragically. “Don’t ever resort to working at a magic shop, Jon. It’s really a different world.” 

“I—really don’t think I’ll be quitting my current job anytime soon,” Jon says. 

“I’ll say,” Oliver says, and his tone is amused again, heavy with the implication that he knows something Jon doesn’t. It grates at him, that knowing.

“Alright,” Jon says sharply (finally), “what’s so funny?” 

Oliver leans back in his chair, fingers still curled loosely around his plastic teacup. He’s smiling, now. “My apologies. My associate likes to play these sort of games, and I’m afraid I’ve picked up on her bad habits and completely forgotten my manners. An unfortunate symptom of game nights.”

It doesn’t escape Jon that he didn’t answer the question. “You said you wanted to talk about my ghosts.” 

“I do,” Oliver says. “I felt it was a bit of a presumptuous start, though. I thought I’d break the ice a little, but if you’re so keen to get started, I will.” 

He takes another sip of his tea, and then places the empty cup on the table. “Has it worsened over the years? Your ah—” he laughs, “—third eye?” 

Jon suddenly becomes very interested in his own teacup. “I—” he exhales. “Yes. I suppose it has.” 

“It will continue to get worse,” Oliver says. “Especially with the Institute’s influence. I would tell you to be careful but—”

“There’s not much I can do about it,” Jon finishes for him. His shoulders slump in glum resignation. He sighs. “Is that it? I should’ve known.” 

“Oh, no,” Oliver says, “there’s more. The ghost thing was just so I could get you here. _Don’t look so panicked_ , I’m not going to _kill_ you. I just—this is an icebreaker meeting, you know? We’ll meet again, and then maybe I’ll be at more liberty to tell you things.”

He smiles apologetically and starts standing up, pushing his chair in. “I’ve got to run now. Feel free to order anything you’d like—it’s on someone else’s tab.” 

“Someone you don’t particularly care for?” Jon guesses. 

“He won’t even notice,” Oliver promises. His tone suggests yes. “I’ll see you around, Jon.” 

“ _God_ , I hope not,” Jon mutters. “Bye, Oliver.” 

&

Oliver Banks walks out of the Chinese restaurant and into the cool night air. There’s a taxi waiting for him. He opens the door and gets in. 

The cabbie says, in a drawling Cockney accent, “Had a good time?” 

“The best,” Oliver says. “You don’t need to worry. He’s very promising.” 

Annabelle laughs and pulls her sunglasses off, tucking them into the glove compartment. “How did you know?” 

“The accent,” he says. It’s a lie: there are a million obvious clues that Annabelle left for him and they both know it. Still, it’s more fun this way.

“Breekon and Hope have it going for them.” 

“No they don’t.” 

“No they don’t,” she agrees. “Chess?” 

“Of course,” Oliver says. “My place or yours?” 

&

Jon orders enough takeout to feed him for at _least_ two weeks, and then immediately regrets it. 

It’s a lot of food. Far more than he can carry and probably more than he’ll eat before it spoils. So he does the sensible thing for once and calls Tim. 

“Er,” he says as soon as Tim picks up, “You have a car right?” 

&

Tim asks questions. He asks a _lot_ of questions, most of which Jon answers by saying that he has zero idea what happened tonight and yes, Time, you can have some of the food. 

“Oliver Banks,” Tim says musingly, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “I’ll do some research tomorrow. I don’t think anyone will mind if I look up your stalker instead of confirming some crackpot’s ghost story.” 

Jon purses his lips at that. He obviously hadn’t given Tim the _full_ story. No one really needs to know that Jon _is_ one of those crackpots. “Good luck,” he says. “I don’t know if he even gave me his real name.” 

“He’d be stupid to,” Tim says, “but I can work with stupid. Next time he shows up, we’ll face him together, okay? _Don’t_ go running off with random people who mysteriously know your name.” 

“Sure,” Jon says. If there’s a next time—there will be a next time, if Oliver’s last words had been any indication—he definitely isn’t calling Tim. 

“Seriously,” Tim says, and knocks against Jon’s head. “I know your head is only filled with _work-related concerns_ ,” —he says the last part in a bad imitation of Jon’s voice— ”but you’re not alone, you know? It’s okay to be scared.” 

  
“Yeah,” Jon says, and thinks that maybe Tim has hit the nail _too_ hard on the head this time. “Yeah, I know. Thank you, Tim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> \- This chapter was weirdly hard to write. I'm very sorry for taking so long about it.  
> \- Oliver stole Peter Lukas' credit card, which is the aforementioned "tab"  
> \- Sasha and Martin were presented with gift-wrapped Chinese takeout the next day.  
> \- Some miso soup spilled during the journey and Tim's car smelled like it for two weeks.  
> \- Annabelle won in chess, breaking Oliver's three-game streak.
> 
> As always, thank you for your support! Reading the comments make my day :) I'll endeavor to get the next chapter out sooner.


End file.
